


The Beast Will Keep a Day

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Geralt has SO MANY FEELINGS, Sickfic, jaskier is poorly this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:55:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22150663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Jaskier's come down with a fever.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 969
Collections: Best Geralt, GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	The Beast Will Keep a Day

**Author's Note:**

> I'm bowled over by the response to my little Witcher fics. I've not joined a new fandom for a while so I'm really touched, thanks all.

“Go without me. You said it yourself, you don’t need anyone, and you d-don’t want anyone needing you.”

Geralt scowled over at Jaskier, barely visible under six heaped furs. He’d started running a fever yesterday, and woken up this morning hot and glassy-eyed, shivering, and for the first time in a long time, watching him toss and turn and shake and cough, Geralt had felt something he hadn’t known in many years - the little mouse of fear skittering down his spine.

“I am  _ not _ leaving you, Jaskier.”

“You’re a Witcher, for g-goodness’ sake. If you d-don’t kill monsters, where will I get s-song material?”

He couldn’t be  _ that _ sick, could be? Geralt reasoned. If he was complaining. The thought lifted him a bit.

He left his shivery little bard for a few scant moments to procure warm, spiced apple juice (at least the barkeep  _ insisted  _ it was made of apples) and a few slices of juicy roast pork. Re-entering the room, plate in hand, he perched his not inconsiderable bulk on the edge of the straw-stuffed mattress. Not the best inn they’d slept in, not the worst, but he couldn’t help feeling sorry that there were no fine linen sheets for Jaskier to lay under.

“Eat, bard.”

Paler than earlier, Jaskier obediently sat up and allowed himself to be fed. No smart comments, no quips, and that contracted Geralt’s stomach more than anything.

“I feel less than stellar today, Geralt,” he eventually eeked out after a single swallow of the mulled apple juice. “You’ll have to slay the Wendigo alone and give me the highlights. And d-don’t be s-stingy.”

“The beast will keep a day,” Geralt groused, setting aside the empty tankard and clean plate. “Rest.” He laid the back of his hand against the bard’s sweat-slicked forehead to find it burning. “Fuck.”

A bath had been run earlier, so he crossed over to the wooden tub and dipped a rough cloth in the cooling water. He wrung it out and lay it on Jaskier’s forehead. The bard closed his eyes and sighed. “‘S nice.”

Geralt stood over his charge awkwardly. What did he do now? Was he meant to say something reassuring? Comforting? Kind?

“You really should say something kind,” Jaskier murmured, his voice breaking a little on the last word.

Geralt curled his hands into fists. “I won’t let you die.”

Jaskier responded with something that sounded like  _ that’s the kindest thing you’ve said in forever, _ and then dropped off into a fitful sleep. Geralt kept vigil as the day passed into night, waking the bard from time to time to encourage him to sip water, or watered down ale. The minutes crawled by, his only companion the crescent moon hanging low in the sky, and the pinprick stars that winked out one by one, as dawn slowly broke.

Mumbling in his sleep, the bard bit off curses and tangled his fingers in the scratchy, age-yellowed sheets, tossing and turning.

Finally, when he could take the shivering of his friend no longer, and when he couldn’t find a single other fucking fur or coverlet to pile on to Jaskier without fearing smothering him, Geralt did the only thing his addled brain could conjure. He stripped off his armour and leathers and joined the bard under the pile of fur and old linen and blankets, and gathered the leanly muscled man close.

No sooner had he arranged Jaskier so he was spread out over Geralt’s wide torso, Jaskier’s shivering stopped, and he sighed a sleepy, tired sigh. And Geralt let out the breath he’d been holding for what felt like days.

“I won’t let you die,” he repeated to the sleeping bard. 

Jaskier murmured something unintelligible and let out a soft snore. The sun rose and the first fingers of daylight stretched through the thin window shutters, playing over Geralt’s face. He glanced down at the slumbering bard. He was quite comely like this, when he was silent, the Witcher thought, fondly.

Then he, too, slept.


End file.
